


Anchor

by Momjeans



Series: Brought Back [1]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Did I Mention Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post Fury Road, Post Movie, Slow Burn, Violence, but dont worry it happens, citadel fight nights, like mostly fluf, max comes back (kinda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5085664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momjeans/pseuds/Momjeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her heart pounds with anticipation, and she marches out into the ring, facing the crowd with a tight fist and broad shoulders, head lowered down to a scowl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic! I started handwriting this because I got crazy inspired by this fandom, an now its finally typed up. There's a pt2 coming up so stay tuned. Please let me know what you think!  
> (action-y bits start around ch 6 if that's what you're here for)

Max hasn't been cradled since he was a boy. Feeling someone else's body warmth on his back is foreign. He can still feel the dry rubble of the wasteland beneath him. Sweat and grime make his shirt stick uncomfortably on his arms. Trousers are bunched up awkwardly on his backside. He is sitting.  
Legs, he can feel his legs. Good. He feels the rough cloth of his pants, stiff with dirt. Wait, more legs, not his, resting around on either side of him.  
Oh, that warmth again, on his back. Good, he can feel his back. Something warm on the nape of his neck, propping his head up. Max finally realizes he's sitting in the middle of someone's legs, almost lying down in their chest.

Oh, oh god, fuck.

His temples, pounding, a cluster of throbbing pain sweeps his cranium, his skull building with pressure and dizziness. Thankfully it's not bright out. The blinding light could make his head burst. But now the sun is hanging in the sky, just on the edge of a sunset, making clouds ripple with orange and pink.  
Max tilts his head back to see who the legs belong to, kicking himself for not doing that earlier. Obstructing his view is the shadow of someone's arm, busy, working at something, holding something. The arm moves to reveal their head; hair shorn short, orange light glowing off their cheekbones, goggles still on. For a moment Max sees eyes through the lenses. Sun bleached lashes dance with light, and green eyes focusing with a gentle persistence. He feels his head drop slightly as a metal hand, larger than a flesh one, moves to the goggles to lift them from where they were resting on the stranger’s face.

 _Oh_. Furiosa.

Instantly he feels grateful, safe; a little embarrassed, but safe. Something cool touches his bottom lip, shocking him a little.

“Here” she croons, watching his cracked lips.

A shallow stream of cool water spills out the mouth of a canteen and into his. It heals every crack of dryness on his tongue, seeping into the breaks of skin on his lips. His body begins to drink before he realizes it, reaching his mouth towards the canteen, and then adjusting his whole upper body to get a better angle. Max’s hands fumble at the bottle to get the last stream.

Furiosa hums in satisfaction, and he feels the vibrations of the back of his skull through her chest.

“Good?” she asks, testing whether or not he would be responsive. Max is confused for half a second, forgetting all types of communication. It’s been so, so long.

“Hmm” he grunts, surprised his throat can make any noise.

He falls back into her chest without realizing it, his head dropping into the crook of her arm again. He almost sees her smile.

Furiosa's skin glows with beads of sweat and her eyes look up at the horizon, past him. She raises the canteen to her mouth with her metal hand, tipping her head back to catch any of what he might have left (not much at all). She licks her lips tightly, collecting all the water she could. Max can't stop looking at her, bewildered by the fact that she's here.

“Didn't think you would wake up” she says in a low tone, screwing the cap back onto the canteen, still not looking at him. He grunts again, trying to be communicative. Her eyes flicker from the horizon to his head. “Alright,” she says shifting her weight a little, “up”.

Max feels a pang of panic. Getting to his feet sounds a bit daunting.

“Come on, gotta get out of here before scavengers come back” she tries to convince him. Scooping her arms under his, she eventually gets him upright, leaning on her for the majority of support. He's lighter than she'd expected.

Max’s knee keeps buckling before he gives up all effort to stand on it at all.  
They hobble over to her car; pieces of wreckage welded together with a bare, impressive engine on the front. He notices the skeleton arm, same as the war rig, painted on the driver's door.

Pulling open the passenger door with her free hand she places Max in the bucket seat, which he fits quite neatly into. When she slams the door shut, she doesn't notice him flinch at the sound, a little jolted. Dropping herself into the driver's side, she flicks a series of switches, igniting the engine, making it hum. Max is limp and helpless, like his body lacks response. That survival tick in his brain is a like a dead battery now. Still a bit startled from the door slamming, he looks over at her, with that purely confused look of his.

Adjusting some things in the car and on her arm, she offers an explanation. “I’m taking you to the Citadel, you’re sick”

Max mumbles what might have been halfhearted “no”s in protest, but she cuts him off.

“You’ll get food and water, then you can leave when you want”  
He hums, not completely on board with the situation, but his head hurts too much, so he settles into his seat. “Sleep” she says gently, pressing on the gas pedal.


	2. Chapter 2

The girls knew that Max would come back eventually. They would Mention his name from time to time while working.

“Max” became less and less heard, until not at all.

It takes 700 days.

Furiosa comes back in her V8, from what was supposed to be scouting perimeter. Her car rolls up to the garage lifts, wheels locked in place as they rise. Curious pups peer in to see her, and something slumped in the passenger seat. They whisper, flickering eyes at Furiosa, without any grease on her forehead.

Parking her car, she lifts herself out and rounds the front. She pulls open the passenger door, creaking with effort. Lifting Max’s arm and pulling it around the back of her neck, she lifts his sleepy body out of the seat, barely awake.  
Toast marches through war boys, rifle slung on her shoulder and a black scarf around her neck. Her brows furrow and she sizes up whatever Furiosa's carrying.

“A stray?” she says between her teeth, something like a toothpick in her mouth.  Max looks up at her, half asleep and Toast’s expression changes, shocked.  “Didn't think he’d ever come back” She tongues the thing in her mouth.

“He didn't, picked him up”.

Furiosa walks awkwardly with Max at her side. “Could you get Cheedo to bring a double ration of water to my room, maybe a cot”

Toast looks Max up and down again, a little stricken with disbelief.  “Uh, yeah. sure…” she mumbles, proceeding call at misbehaving war pups.

“Come on” Furiosa mutters, hobbling through the Citadel tunnels to her room, and holding back coughs. They crawl but she's patient, with Max on the verge of losing consciousness. His migraine still throbs and his head drops over and over, before she nudges him up with her shoulder. They must have taken longer than she expected, because by the time they get up to her room, Cheedo has already set up the cot, neatly placing blankets on the floor.

Her body snaps up when she hears a grunt from Furiosa at the entrance. She is dressed in white still, but her hair is up in an intricate braid, probably done by Dag. Rushing over to Max, she examines him with dark eyes, and places the pads of her fingers on his head, his shoulder, his ribs, his bad knee. Max makes a noise of discomfort.

“Is he hurt?” she questions, still examining him.

“Not bad, but he is sick” Furiosa says, lifting his arm from behind her head.  Cheedo touches right under his jaw, checking his pulse, and looks at Max for input.

“mm… headache” he says looking at the ground. Cheedo checks the veins on his hands, caked with sand and dirt.

“What, just a little dehydration and heat fever?” she states, as if Max should be immune to those things. “Well we’re all human”. She turns and points, “water rations on your trunk”.

Resting her hand on Max's shoulder, she ducks out of the room, and looks back at them both, “Feel better”. Her cloth shoes pad down the halls with urgency, always somewhere else to be.

Furiosa’s room is small, and minimal, consisting of a trunk, a small bed, and now a cot. What separated her quarters from the other imperator's was the privilege of a window, shaped like half a circle, with bars instead of glass. A breeze floats through, swirling dust in the air.

She nearly drops max onto the bed, and rusty springs creak. The mattress itself is only big enough for one person. But _oh_ , it was a bed, something you sink into. Woven vuvalini blankets lay unmade, smelling distinctly of Furiosa. Without realizing it, Max makes a noise of complete satisfaction, and she almost chuckles, half smiling.

She drags over the two large, off white bottles, labeled with faded lettering of “GRADE A PASTEURIZED”.

“When I get back, one of those has to be empty” she speaks.

He nearly doesn't hear her, drifting into a deep sleep, exhausted and sinking into the mattress. His breath slows down and he inhales the musty smell of the mattress deeply before breathing out, humming a little.


	3. Chapter 3

She leaves wordlessly, boots tapping through the stone tunnels, smelling of copper and a little like guzzoline. In the garage she counts, and recounts her bullets, sorting through supplies among the pups. She oils and tunes up her engine, inside and out. War boys around her laugh, talking loudly and working on their engines together.

Most of the boys still call her “bag of nails”, but only when she isn't around; usually call her “nails” when she is. Furiosa hates Joe; it makes her sick how brainwashed his war boys were, but she never hates being part of them. Everything among the boys is mutual and simple. Respect is either earned or lost from one another. It's stable and easy. Predictable even.

She travels to the mess hall, roaring with white noise. Prying a tin bowl in her metal hand, she is served up root mash and beans. To her surprise, a large curly lettuce leaf is tucked into her bowl. Around the room, everyone gets one, frills of green nestled into each ration. A young server boy looks at her, balancing on a crutch.

“The Dagger says everyone gets one, every 20 days” he explains. She nods back in acknowledgement.

Her hand clutches a tin cup as well, and a broad, short man behind a cauldron pours her broth with a rusted ladle, creating curls of steam. She walks past a table of war pups, all aweing at Capable, who tells them stories with a wide smile. Whispers and giggles bubble along the table.

“Ay! Heard our fool’s back!” Capable yells across the table, smiling still. Furiosa smirks at her, and continues to walk out of the hall, hearing whispers behind her.

_“Fool?”_

_“What fool?”_

_“What is she saying?”_

Climbing back to her room, she is careful not to spill the salty broth. She nibbles on the lettuce leaf and It is crisp and bitter, fresher than anything she's had in a long time. The green place rings at the back of her mind, remembering long gardens and chewing herbs while weeding.

Entering her room, slightly warm from the gas light and extra body heat, she rests the meal next to the bed frame. One bottle is empty, just as she had asked. She tips the jug up to her mouth, catching any last drops.

Max is slumped on his side, still sinking into the bed. His shoulders rise and fall with breaths, a little too rapidly. His eyes twitch beneath his eyelids.

She doesn't know exactly how to wake him up, so she awkwardly nudges his shoulder to the side. Immediately he jolts awake, eyes wide and his hand snapping at her forearm, clenching and slightly pinching her skin. She presses him back onto the bed with the weight of her metal warm, cold against his warm body.

“Hey” she grits, uneasily staring him down.

He makes eye contact with her, still breathing hard, but then swallowing down any fear or panic. He forces his muscles to relax, when Furiosa warily takes her arm away from his chest, looking skeptic.

“Come, sit up” she nearly whispers.  He obliges sort of, only half sitting up on the bed. “Brought you a meal” she says, handing him the bowl, and giving him a spoon keeps on top of her trunk.

He notices the half eaten lettuce leaf, and scrapes up some beans into the spoon. It’s been too long since he’s eaten anything from a plant. He bites into the thin lettuce leaf, really, really trying not to show how satisfying it is. How green and crisp with water.

“How do you feel?” she asks, eyes glancing at him.  
He stops chewing to look up at her, in the middle of sucking root mash off of the edge of his thumb, and he looks down into his bowl again.

“Mmm. Better” he replies.

So much is left unspoken between the two and the past 700 days, but both of them keep it that way. Maybe because they are apprehensive, but mostly because closure seldom (if not at all) crosses either of their minds.

Furiosa sits on the edge of the cot and starts reflexively unbuckling her prosthetic, looking out the window. Blue light outlines the profile of her face and gaslight glows on her cheeks. She can't tell but Max is looking at her, not dazed like before, but more fascinated. Her lips part slightly and her head is focused while the rest of her body jerks against the tedious struggle of cracking leather straps. She sets the arm next to the cot, the harness still warm and contouring the shape of her ribs, and rests her elbows on her knees to let her head sink between her shoulders, tight and stiff with knots. She lets out a sigh of discomfort, bringing her hand up to the nape of her neck, brushing across the brand and then to her hair.

Her hair is a bit long now, nearly an inch. Running her fingers through the strands on the top of her scalp, she bites her bottom lip softly. Max tries not to look at her, in the case she would look up to catch him starring. Instead he focuses on his meal, nearly done.

Furiosa hoists herself up to pick up the cup of broth to take a long sip before offering it to Max. As he drinks, she grabs a rag and a razor, built with a guard so her hair would be the length she likes. Picking up the second water ration, she wets the cloth, tipping the jug downwards, and rubs the cloth over her hair, trying to get it somewhat wet. Slinging the cloth over her shoulder she looks into a rusted rear view mirror. She hangs the hissing gaslight on a pick in the wall near the mirror, and runs her fingers through her hair one last time.

She begins shaving from back to front, straightening out her neck and shoulders, careful to get around her ears. She wipes the razor with the cloth every couple strokes. Pieces fall onto her shoulders, and to her feet. Max still sits on the bed, watching her, how she looks when she sees her own reflection through rust patches.

After the final couple strokes, she holds the handle of the razor between her teeth and wipes off her neck and shoulders, doing a half job of cleaning herself up. Snapping the cloth, she snatches the razor and wraps it neatly, placing it on her trunk. Looking at herself again, she runs her fingers over the short fuzz on her head, especially where the hair is fine and soft, on the nape of her neck and behind her ears.

Furiosa loves shaving her hair; she loves when she feels a breeze on the back of her neck when it's hot, and she loves touching it two or three days after a shave, feeling new and fresh.

She looks at Max, who doesn't look away this time.

He thumbs his bottom lip “Er, wanted to. Say thank you” he says in a gravelly voice. Nearly a sentence.

“And you too,” the words nearly melting off her tongue. “the girls are very thankful, for what you did. Even the mothers”. She kicks off her boots, “Capable tells stories about you to the pups”

Max shifts, humming in response. He slides his heavy jacket off his shoulders, and looking around, carefully hooks it on the bed frame. Furiosa sets the hissing lantern on the trunk.

The room is nearly cozy, and he loves it. It is such a sudden change but he feels thankful, no time or capacity to think of anything else. His mind is quiet and soft and he tries not to worry if that's a good thing or not.

Furious dials down the lantern, clicking it off. "Get some rest" she says gently.

The room is black, the window doesn't let much light in. Max can't see but he listens with his good ear. He hears chords being untied and heavy fabric falling to the ground. Coarse fabric slides over her shoulders as she exhales. After one heavy drop of a leather belt he hears the cot creak as she crawls in, pulling a blanket over her shoulder. The sounds sooth him, it’s something to focus on, so he listens to her breathing until he drifts back asleep without effort, hoping that she sleeps well.

====

The sound of Furiosa sucking in breath is like a gunshot through silence. Her chest heaves for air and she clutches at her neck, eyes wide in the dark. She chokes like she’s drowning, mumbling inaudible words between breath.

Max leaps out of the bed and feels around the cot, fumbling not to touch her roughly. Her fingers snap at his wrist. If he could see, her knuckles would have been bone white and shaking. Max's eyes are wide and sacred when they meet her pupils, nearly visible even in the lack of light. Slight catches of blue bounce off her skin, soaked In a cold sweat.

"Hey, hey." He says, trying to be some form of comfort, something solid.

She just keeps heaving breath and shaking, her heart pounds through her chest and in her ears, and panic sweeps her limbs. Max places his wide palm on her head warily, trying to stop the shaking.

"Hey, Furiosa" he breathes, steadied a little.

It doesn't help. Her skin is numb and crawling, ears ringing, feeling like she needs to run, but still clinging to his wrist.

"Furiosa" he barely whispers.

She focuses on taking breaths, less desperate now, forcing herself to calm down. She gulps a breath of air and steadies herself, only a little. Max feels her hand knead at his palm, and he hums, rubbing his calloused thumb over temple, knowing where it hurts most. She slowly untenses her muscles, and lays back into the cot.

She starts to breathe through her nose, forced, paced breaths. He moves his palm to her shoulder, rubbing over the skin there too, and then to her fingers, locked on his opposite wrist. He presses over her thumb and relaxes her hand, eventually holding it, massaging the fingers.

 Kneeling at the cot, he turns to lean against it, her hand still resting over his shoulder. The shaking has nearly subsided, a reward of her slow breathing. Her head feels exhausted, buzzing, and her jaw aches from grinding teeth. With her nostrils flaring, and eyes shut tight, she tells herself to rest. Go to sleep. Shake it off. Rest.

"It's okay," he coaxes "sleep".

Furiosa's breathing finally, finally becomes somewhat normal, until it sounds something like sleep. Max feels her pulse, a steady beat beneath skin. He feels movement on his shoulder from her hand; her thumb and fingers fidgeting for something until she finds the fabric on the collar of his shirt, and begins to rub it in her grip. He counts. Counts her pulse like it's an anchor for him, something to focus on, something solid.


	4. Chapter 4

Furiosa has a habit of waking up early, just before light peeks through her window.

Lifting her torso, she sits on the edge of her cot, rubbing at her neck again and breathing out. She looks down at Max, still sleeping soundly, slumped next to the rusted frame, and raises her left arm to twist her shoulder, stretching out knots from her prosthetic and the stiff cot. Untangling her clothes from yesterday, she pulls her undershirt over her head. It might have once been white, but now it's stained, dirt in the creases where fabric bunches up under the harness, and ridden with holes.

She slips a belt through the loops around her waist, and tightens it around her hips, warm from sleep. Slipping on her boots without buckling them, she saunters out of the room.

Over and over, she grazes her fingers across the newly shorn hair on the back of her neck.

The mess hall is different than last night. It echoes with the early morning caucus of a kitchen. Grabbing two meal worm biscuits, she nods to the cook, a short gray haired woman with maybe five teeth.

"Luv," she barks, "take this". The cook folds a warm piece of flat bread into Furiosa's hand, and flashes her a smile. "Don't tell nobody" she whispers with a finger to her lips.

Furiosa smiles and strolls out of mess, keeping the bread warm in her palm but careful not to crush it.

She silently weaves through war boy barracks, ducking under hammocks and stepping over piles of bodies lying on one another, and stops at a familiar bunk; top mattress, sunken, against a wall. Holding the bread and biscuits all in one hand, she nudges a war boys shoulder with the back of her wrist.

"Ace" she whispers. He grunts, sounding drunken with sleep, and she tucks the flat bread into his half open hand, closing his fingers around it. "Morning" she muffles into a bite of biscuit.

"m...Mornin' boss". He turns over, back into a warm cocoon, tucking his hand into his chest, and feels her fingers run over his shoulder as she ducks under a hammock to leave.

Back in her room, she finds Max still asleep, but she knows he needs it, so she takes a long moment to get dressed fully and settle. She laces up her corset, pacing herself to go slowly, and takes time to look at Max, his body heavy in sleep. Yellow light illuminates parts of his hair, especially the tuft on the back of his head that always sticks up. His hair is a patchy mess, but he had obviously tried his best to keep it cut while he was away.

She takes swigs from the water ration, washing down the dry mealworm biscuit, and taps Max's foot with her boot, startling him awake. He draws a sharp breath in, and blinks before yawning. She offers him the bottle, and he accepts, drinking fluidly.

"Here," she says, passing him the second biscuit "breakfast". Max takes a moment to clumsily get to his feet, stiff joints cracking. “Can you work?” Furiosa asks while lifting a strap of her prosthetic over her head, receiving a grunt of affirmation from Max. “Good. We’re building a new rig”  
\----  
The Citadel wakes up fast. Pups sift through tunnels, gardeners climb bridges and terraces after breakfast, and mothers scrub at their children's feet.

Noise is hard for Max; bustling and cackling, a brimming static. Every color and shout from another room might as well be a kick to his jaw. The toes of his boots are nearly on her heels, as if she carries some sort of quiet, stable aura wherever she walks.

He snaps up elastic suspenders over his shoulders, and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, which he hasn't changed out of in weeks.

The walls of the tunnels make him feel caged, and his mind starts buzzing again.

He is caught up in being taken care of, feeling comfortable and catching sleep. He feels stupid, and gluttonous. Too greedy with food and water, rest, Furiosa. His fingers twitch and drum against his sides, and Furiosa turns her head halfway to him entering the garage.

“it’s been forged over the last 24 days now” she speaks pragmatically. “We’ve finally been able to put her together. Trade has been rocky with the runt of a rig we have now”

Max takes note of the enormous gears in the garage turning, and all possible escape routes of the room.

The rig itself is gorgeous, even half built. It stands tall and stiff, more Vuvalini than Citadel. A callosal tanker is being welded, hooked up to the cab, which looks to be taken from an original freightliner. The machine does not have any spikes or hidden guns yet, just the skeleton. Two heavy engines and air vents sit exposed at the front.

“I’m working on the engine. I need to know exactly how it’s built” she says slinging a tool belt around her waist. Max grunts, still examining at the war machine.

He has seen many rigs forged over the years, but none like this. This machine boils with Furiosa; every nook functional, practical, nothing wasted.

Curious war boys try not to notice the strange wasteland man at Furiosa’s side, like a pup.

She nods to the tanker, “You’ll be welding”.  Max feels sort of undermined with such a petty job, but doesn't show it. “Hey Shift!” she yells into the garage. An eager, scrawny war boy answers to her call, lifting his welder's mask to look at her and then to Max.

“Yeah boss?”

“Get him a torch, he knows how to assemble”

“Right on then” says Shift, motioning for Max to follow him. Max shoots Furiosa a confused look that she doesn't catch.

She works diligently and Max works eagerly, counting down the time till he could be done with welding and riveting. Expectant, judgmental looks from the war boys are more than overwhelming, especially when he drops a bolt or two.

In a pause of noise, he hears quick panting and wheezing at his feet. Propping up his mask, Max scowls down to see a stumpy, grease stained dog, struggling to sit down. It has eyes that bulge out of his round head, and ears too big for his fat body. A small pink tongue hangs out of the side of it’s gangly mouth. The dog looks around excitedly at it’s surroundings.

Max hasn't seen a dog since his own. Suddenly he feels very worried for the stumpy thing and so he twists around to scout for anyone who looks like they might have lost something. Looking back down to the dog, a large oily hand scoops around it’s belly, and n old war boy props the fat thing up onto his shoulder, which it balances perfectly on.

Max sizes him up, the man breaks barely five feet. He roughly scratches the top of the dog's head, its ears flattening a little. The war boy is standing uncomfortably close to Max, making him try to step back a little. He looks to the dog, as if it would somehow solve the awkwardness.

“S’ name is Scraps” the war boy blurts.

“Max” he replies, immediately regretting introducing himself to a dog in front of anyone else.

The war boy pats Max on the shoulder heartily, scans his metalwork and marches off, the dog still wheezing on his shoulder.

Hours of welding puts Max on edge, feeling more trapped than before. He stops his work, basically procrastinating. He tries to look busy, and walks to the front of the rig where she works, as if he's looking for something. Furiosa notices the shuffling footsteps,and rolls out from under the engines on a creeper. She sits up, resting her elbows on her knees, and meets eyes with Max. Her oily fingers pull down a bandana from her face, leaving a clean line across the bottom of her eyes, where oil and grime stain above, dangerously reminiscent of her imperator warpaint.

“Need something?”

Max looks around with his perpetually confused look.

“M...mm no, I just. er” he mumbles, pausing in between words, and then humming with nothing else to say.

Furiosa looks at him with absolute pity.  
“Alright, you can work on the engines” she says, knowing exactly what he wants.

Quickly, immediately, he grabs a creeper and and rolls under the rig, noting every bit of the engine he could with his fingers, eager to work on something that challenges him.

Furiosa keeps drill bits in between her teeth and Max hoards four different small tools tucked between his fingers, mouthing silently as he works. Furiosa feels anxious about someone else building her engines, but each time she scans his work, she has to admit to herself that she wouldn't change a thing.

Solidly working, time flows fluidly. Tendons in their hands tighten and their backs start aching to the point where being horizontal on a creeper is unbearable.

Furiosa kicks herself out from under the rig and stretches out her shoulders, the prosthetic feeling heavier than usual. Grabbing her canteen she takes four long swigs, and startles Max from his work when she taps his boot with hers, saying “water” in a wet, cracked voice. Max rubs his hands onto his shirt, not dirtying it any more than it already was.

“She’s getting close but she’s not road worthy yet,” Furiosa says squinting at the rig, tanker and cab nearly finished. “Nowhere near fury road”.

Last time Max heard about fury road was when his head was pounding, blood rushing through his ears, hanging upside down. Any speech was hard to make out, felt like cotton was shoved in his ears, but he heard a young eager war boy bartering to die historic.

“We have to go check on Dag” she speaks in between sips of water.

Dag? Who was Dag?

He has never known their names, except for Furiosa, and Angharad. Only heard hers moments before she fell, reaching to her sisters. Never thought there was any point in learning names.


	5. Chapter 5

They scale up terraces and steps of stone with nothing to hold on to. The hike is draining, making both of their muscles singe with lactic acid. By the time they reach the largest crop of green Furiosa is heaving dry coughing fits.

“Lungs” she chokes, and forces a gravely grunt in her throat, hoping it would suppress another cough in her windpipe.

Dag walks to them, weaving between plants, careful not to step on any unsewn seeds. Furiosa is really struggling to breath now, her eyes welling up a bit as she rubs at her throat.

“Finally” Dag snaps and stops to look Max up and down. “Who's this smeg then?” she says wittily, smirking at Max. He can't help but feel like she resents him a bit.

Oh, this is Dag. Silver hair, saying what hangs in the air but no one will mention.

“Where’s your girl?” Furiosa tries to change the subject.

“With the milkers” Dag replies, still squinting at max, making him a bit uncomfortable, almost ashamed just to be there.

Dag had a daughter, just like the keeper said she might. She is beautiful, a full face with huge blue eyes, only three fingers on each hand. She always babbles on about how she wants metal claws like “Furi’s”. Dag loves her, but she’s no mother. She struggles with who the other half of her daughter is, always trying achingly hard not to think of her baby as a thing, a product of something. The thought chronically looms inside of her, but it’s one thing she’ll never mention to anyone else.

“How are the windmills?” Furiosa continues.

“Fixed. You took too long”. Dag flashes her a look. “Been busy?”

Furiosa can't help but look a bit guilty. Dag is like that, a mad killer with words. But she has to do something to help, so she grabs a wrench from one of her pouches, and walks along irrigation pipes, tightening leaks. Max follows, not knowing what else to do, feeling a bit useless.

Sunset radiates through the sky, no clouds, just gradients of color. He drums his fingers against his thighs again, anxious about leaving, or how long he was allowed to stay. He isn't surprised at Dag’s underwhelming reaction of his return. If anything he agrees; he should have come back sooner.

But Instead he rode on, shaking off cold sweats, ignoring ghosts telling him to go back.

_Turn around_

_Max_

_You promised to help us_

_Max Rockatansky_

He stayed quiet in camps that told stories of a new green place, a struggling citadel, or a new immortan. All he did was sabotage and turn raiders away, then scrambling at his bike to get away from voices.

_Max why’d you leave_

_Go back for her_

_Help us Max_

He tallies reasons as to why he should leave right now, bolt down the terraces and take a bike. It would be worth ridding the tight feeling of being leashed to some place as big as this. And he's about to, just digging his heels into soil, before he hears something soft.

Furiosa hums lowly, almost melodic. An old Vuvalini tune. It is so soft and hidden that he can't hear her when he moves his feet. He listens as best as he can with his good ear, for that low rumble in her throat. He has to stay, just to hear her.

After working on a particularly loose bolt that won't fit, Furiosa wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing dirt in with engine grease. She hacks out more coughs, sounding like an engine starting up without any guzzoline.

“It’s getting dark, we should get to mess before the boys do” she says hoarsely.

Max nods and glances at her before she was about to turn to leave.

“s’ good,” he looks around, “everything’s good here”.

It is, it really is. He’s never seen crops with orange light glowing off the leaves, full meals, clearwater, neighbors not killing each other to live. It’s really really good.

Beads of sweat glitter on her temples and she looks across the horizon. For a moment she thinks of the girls, and then remembers the backbone of the Vuvalini, how every woman stood for herself, fighting better and stronger than any wasteland raider or soldier she’s known.

The girls no longer feel afraid, nor are they soft. Now they're in power of themselves, and run the citadel in prime efficiency.

“Toast has her boys, smartest general I’ve seen. She keeps her soldiers safe” she begins explaining. Max realizes he’s a bit eager to know how they got on, so he listens. “Capable’s got politics, works from within the people. Council system”. She digs her heel into soil to turn towards the steps.  
“Cheedo has her own medical ward, and Dag’s got produce.”

Max hums again, watching his feet on the steps, deathly afraid of falling but trying not to show it.  
\----  
Tunnels leading to the main mess hall twist and curve until they open up into a skylit cave, people just starting to file in. Dinner is the same as last night, but no green leaf this time. They both sit at the end of a long, empty table. Max flinches when he sees a flash of red in the corner of his eye, and a hand tousling at his hair.

“Knew you’d come back” Capable smiles.

Max feels a bit sheepish over the sudden affection.

“mm.. brought back” he corrects her.

Furiosa obviously hears him and eats a little more harshly, not looking at him. _‘Fool’_ she thinks. Would have died of dehydration if she didn't pick him up. Stubborn.

Capable runs her fingers through Furiosa’s newly cut hair.

“glad to see you” she says as she kisses Furiosa’s temple, making her crack a closed smile. It has taken a while to get used to the affection, especially Capable’s, but she’s accustomed to it now.

Capable saunters off to sit with the pups, and Max help but notice Furiosa’s heel bouncing, or how she chews at her bottom lip, or trying to scrape a bowl of food until shone. She’s restless, eager. Nervous habits show on her hangnails, and in a raw blooming split on her lip from biting it too much.

War boys start raucously spilling into the hall, chalky bodies bumping. Max tenses up at the sight.

“uh, better leave” he nearly growls.

Furiosa glances up at him from her cup of broth, and then to the war boys, Toast laughing among them.

“Remember the way to the room?”

Max nods with haste.

“Inside my trunk there’s soap, and an extra rag. Clean yourself up”

He ignores the subtle passive aggression and gets up quickly to leave.  
Before ducking out he checks over his shoulder at her, he finds an old war boy with dark goggles and a bad leg sitting shoulder to shoulder with her.  
\-----  
Max slides his suspenders from his shoulders in her room, only him in it. Her room is just essential and basic compared to who she is.

After kicking off his boots, Max gingerly opens her trunk, and deliberately ignores the easy to find bar of soap. He scans the contents of the trunk to find scattered tools and bolts, two half burnt candles, a flask (full, he checked), what looked like small half built metal fingers, and a red book with curling pages - "Ferdinand".

Wetting the rag, he scrubs hard with the herbal soap. He doesn't have very much luck getting clean, it’s mostly streaks of dirt and oil being pushed around on his chest and arms.

He almost doesn't hear Furiosa walk into the room, startling him. Pulling the shirt over his head due to modestly, he huffs a little, and she begins cleaning herself too, taking off her over shirt and scrubbing at her neck and behind her ears, extra soap where filth accumulated between the straps on her prosthetic.

"Hey, could you...?" She says gesturing to her full arm.

"Mm, yeah, here"

He starts at her elbow, careful not to break open a dried over scab, then working towards her wrist and her palm. He scrubs each finger thoroughly, in between crevices. It seems as if he’s cleaning a gun.

She scratches at her clavicle with her stump. "Thanks"

Tucking away the rag next to the book, Max peers over her shoulder.

"What's it about?" He asks, genuinely curious.

"It's a book".

Max looks at her, dissatisfied, and she rubs at her tense shoulder.

"Angharad taught me how to read it" she breathes.

Furiousa adores this book. She loves the Crimson cover, and the illustrations of the beast.

 _"It's not a beast"_ Angharad said, _"it's gentle see? That's the whole point"._

She could still hear Angharad over her shoulder when she reads it now, patiently sounding out words Furiosa struggled with, constantly cursing under her breath.

She plucks screws and tools from the trunk, "Here, sit. Let me see your leg".  
Max painfully crouches down next to her, and stretches out his leg on the floor, wincing a little. His toes stick out of his sock, as well as his calloused heel. Honestly he’s glad that she wants to work on his brace, he was never very good at it. She’s the only one he's met in the wasteland with a prosthetic, not to mention how phenomenal it is that hers is mobile.

She tinkers with tiny details on the brace that he would have missed completely. Focusing, she asks the inevitable; "How did it happen?". Max winces a little when she tightens something too much, and then loosens it again.

"Bullet, err... Kneecap"

She says nothing.

"You?" He asks warily, studying her face. She twists a bolt.

"Got stuck"

Max just hums and let's her work by gaslight, not questioning further.  
After her tune up (which improved the brace a great deal) she works on her arm, laid out in front of her, oiling the joints.

He hasn't noticed it but he’s beginning to bounce his knee too, twiddling his fingers. Accidentally, he hums a slight tone of impatience, and she looks up at him, cocking an eyebrow.

"Need uh. Need something to do" he says scratching his ear.

 

She stops working to chew at her thumb and bottom lip, releasing a heavy breath. Her body lifts up like she's made a decision.

"Alright, come with me"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ok this is where action actually stars happening, thank you sm for sticking through this :>

She ducks out of the room, without her prosthetic strapped on. Max struggles to stand a bit, but stays on her heels walking through the halls. Her fingers stroke pipes lining the walls, and she marches with every sense of purpose. Light Bulbs of all sorts of shapes and colors flicker, leaving some parts of the halls black.

No, Max doesn't like this, not knowing where he’s being taken, what’s going on. The survival ticks are creeping back again, but he still follows her, light washing over her head every few steps.

They both silently pass through the garage, desolate and empty now. Furiosa takes a sharp turn left into the dark, ducking into a small corridor, cramped. Max's shoulders brush along the rough stone wall, and he feels agoraphobic.

Light peeks through the end of the hall, along with muffled cheering and manic screaming. The raucous grows louder and more powerful, thrumming against the walls. Furiosa walks unphased, reaching the end of the tunnel into a tall, into an open space, illuminated by moonlight and whatever electricity could be spared.

They slip through a crowd of pumped up war boys, pounding their chests and scratching their throats with crazed screams. Max has to fight the urge to snap at her wrist, in fear that he might get separated from her in the overwhelming crowd. Bodies block whatever it is they are circled around, pumping their fists.

Finally nearing the front, Max finally catches sight as to what the excitement was all about.

A proud war boy, raising his fist high in the air, scars of Pistons on his chest. Blood is dripping from his ear and his nose, standing victorious over an opponent, crawling to his feet.

No

No he can’t stand this right now. It's too much. Too many chalky bodies. He struggles to tell whether or not the manic voices were coming from his head or from the crowd. He feels captive, like his ankles are bound.

She should have understood. She should have known how the war boys make him flinch a little, and how this, dozens of them, all clamoring in a tight space is the exact opposite of that he wants. But she doesn't understand, they're all too familiar to her, she’s desensitized.

He breathes through his nose, hard, palms becoming balmy.

An excited war boy yells near Furiosa’s shoulder, “Boss! Didn't think you would ever come down again”

Max still stares at the triumphant war boy, taking in the uproar of glory. She turns to shout in his good ear,

“It’s just pinning, no knockouts,” she peers over shoulders for a better look at the next upcoming fight, not at him. “Some boys don't get back up. We can’t afford that’

“I’m not fighting” he shouts back.

“I know”

Two younger war boys, maybe around 7000 days, are giddy with crazed delight over their next battle, taunting one another before scuffling and struggling to throw any actual punches. Eventually one breaks free, to quickly heave a fist to his opponent, making him double over. Recovering from the blow, the second war boy barrels towards the first, every intention of bringing them both to the ground.

Max watches Furiosa, whose fists are clenching, twitching with imitation punches to the air. She looks like she wants to scream.

The fight is nearly over, a quick one. A large war boy, the ringleader, pounds the ground, rounding off a victorious pin, and the winning fighter roars back to the crowd

Max shouldn't have looked away from her, because she’s gone now.


	7. Chapter 7

Adrenaline singes through his skull, and he panics.

She slips through bodies to find a war pup holding a small pot of black grease. Dipping three fingers into the cup, she spreads lines vertically across her lips.

Her heart pounds with anticipation, so she marches out into the ring, facing the crowd with a tight fist and broad shoulders, head lowered down to a scowl. Her sudden presence makes the war boys uproar in deafening noise.

Max’s stomach sinks when he sees her arm lifted up by the ring leader, opposing another war boy. This one is older, but a bit shorter than Furiosa. The white paint in between the black streaks on his lips makes him look like he bears fangs.

As the ringleader backs away, both their chests heave and nostrils flare. She touches her forehead to his, challenging him like she was taught. Fists raise to block their faces, heels dig into the ground, and the ring leader begins counting down from five.

“This is gonna be shine” a gravely voice next to Max says.

He recognizes the man, the old war boy with the bad leg and dark goggles.

Max is desperate to know what’s going on. Her arm. Where is her arm.

“Where’s her arm?” he shouts to the war boy without thinking.

“That metal thing ain't no arm,” he replies almost laughing, “that thing’s a weapon. No weapons allowed at fights”

Noise around him dissipates, and he can only focus on her nervously.

Furiosa barely moves in her fighting stance, eyes like steel, as her opponent dances and taunts around her. He throws the first punch, prematurely. She ducks her body, fluidly rising again to deliver a blow under his chin. His head barely snaps back under the resistance of muscle. Angrily, the war boy growls and swings to her ribs, missing again as she floats backwards. She takes the split second his guard is down to shift her entire weight into planting her boot just under his liver. But he locks her calf between his body and his arm, and drives his opposite fist square into her jaw, making her body snap to the side and lose balance. She crashes down violently, and the war boy takes the moment to foolishly bask in the glory from the ring. At the height of cheer she’s back on her feet, a full rig of muscle crashing into the war boy, her momentum making his footwork sloppy. Furiosa hooks her heel behind his ankle and jerks on the back of his knee, returning the fall.

Max is tensing up more now, grunting under pressure, resisting fighting alongside her.

Furiosa gives the war boy a moment to get back on his feet. They both square up again for a proper fight. He peppers punches towards her face, but ends up only pummeling her forearm and left bicep. Her shoulders are flexed tight and her jaw is grinding, when a fist digs itself into her gut, knocking her back. She unhesitantly counter attacks, swinging her left elbow to his nose, blood spraying before trickling down his lips. He twists his momentum again, and his fist goes straight to her jaw. She steps back a moment too late, and the bone in his fist crunches her bottom lip onto her teeth. She growls and steps back again, giving him a chance to swing. With the second blow she ducks to the side, and the fist goes flying past her ear. She locks her arms around the back of his neck and drives her knee up to pound into his stomach, crying out like she had when her boot crunched against max’s muzzle. The war boy’s body jerks with each blow from her knee. He shoves his weight against her, making her topple over backwards into rubble, his heavy body pinning her down.The crowd roars with approval, as the war boy lifts his torso up and raises his fist, punching her nose, neck snapping to the side. A mixture of blood and saliva spills from her mouth.

Max’s eyes are wide, his heart pounding. The old war boy next to him is yelling incoherently.

Get up. She needs to get up. Fuck. Come on.

Furiosa pulls her torso up beneath her opponent with rage, crunching her forehead into the bridge of his nose. She swings his body to the side off of her, brings her leg over him, and clips her knuckles under his chin. She uses her elbow to pin him at the windpipe, her strong thighs to press his lower body down, and he is lodged underneath her body.

The heavy ringleader steps into the fight and pounds the ground to count down the pin.  
“We have a victor!” he bellows out.

He lifts Furiosa to her feet by her arm, presenting her to she clamoring crowd. She screams back, lifting her fist, blood, snot, and saliva mixing with the black war paint, dripping off her lips. The gleaming white of her teeth show through, and she’s almost smiling.

Max is relieved but still so jolted by the fight. She jaunts back towards the edge of the crowd where max is, but she looks straight past him while cracking her neck and stretching out her shoulders.

She’s grabbed by the war boy next to him. His thick hands pat her on the back and he runs his greased fingers through the fuzz on her head excitedly. And she laughs, the sound a bit muffled from the noise of the crowd. She wipes away blood and snot from the back of her hand, and nearly stumbles backwards into the old war boys chest, still dizzy. Max feels out of place between the two, not sure where he fits in. The old one keeps congratulating her, with a deep gravely voice

“Haven't seen you fight in ages boss!”

Her lip feels nonexistent with numbness, and her limbs buzz with leftover adrenaline. Oh, right. Blood. Better keep that. She pinches her nostrils, and tips her head back, eyes blinking. It only takes a moment before she’s approached again, this time by her opponent. He slaps her on the back and heaves for breath, resting his hands on his knees.

“Fuckin’ bagganails” he chuckles breathlessly. Furiosa laughs at him nasally, nose still bleeding and pinched. Her eyes finally meet Max’s, still wide.

“Max!” she calls out to him.

First time she says his name.

He nods and obediently pushes past bodies to get to her. She puts her hand on his shoulder and shouts into his good ear again, “This is Canis”

The bloody war boy gets upright, and hooks his arm around the back of Furiosa’s neck roughly.

“Never seen you around, full life” Canis cocks an eyebrow at Max. He just grunts and hums in response, as he does.

He can't stop glancing at the war boy with the dark goggles, considerably taller than Max and much more built. Furiosa notices and shouts in his ear again,

“Ace, my second”

Max nods at Ace, who barely gives him any recognition. She struggles to keep dignity over her bleeding nose around her excited comrades.

“Canis was her first knockout, just a pup, barely broke 6000 days old” Ace remarks proudly, a little nostalgic, and mouth perking into a smile. She lets out a laugh again, soon turning to a coughing fit before she spits to the ground.

She turns to yell something into Ace’s ear, and he nods, running his palm over her head again, and she motions for Max to follow her.


	8. Chapter 8

Walking through the the tunnels both their ears ring with white noise. She keeps coughing, spitting out a thick phlegm, and carrying it on as if it's no big deal.

"Alright," she says hoarsely, "come here".

Without looking at Max, she winces and brings her arm up and over behind him, hobbling on him for support. He holds her wrist by his neck, and happily walks her along, careful not to tangle their ankles. She is warm and solid, and he savors her touch without noticing it. "Thank you" he hears her whisper, and it sounds like it's meant for more than just how he's helping her to the room.

In her quarters he tries to lay her down in the bed, but she shakes her head, "Cot". He grunts and sits her down on the edge of the rusted thing. "Rag" she croaks. Max hurriedly wets the cloth and she takes off her over shirt.

She doesn't ask him to, but he scrubs at her shoulders and behind her neck, behind her ears. He bunches up the cloth and gingerly presses it against a scraped patch on her scalp, and another underneath the crook of her jaw. She lets her head hang to the side and let's out a relieved "ahh.." as the cool water loosens rubble in the raw skin. It feels a bit silly to clean around her mouth and on her face, but he does it anyways. He holds her hand gently and scrubs at the crusted blood on her elbow, and then to her fingers like before. He cleans away the dark red at her cuticles, and the rubble under her nails. He works tentatively, making sure he doesn't miss a spot. And she just looks at him, how focused he is. She can't help but let herself show a little bit of a smile in her eyes in spite of him.

"Didn't take you for a scrapper" he says.

She rubs at the back of her neck, eyebrows wincing, "It's how I uh, established myself. As a pup. Gave me an opportunity to get on with the boys".

Max nods and kicks off his boots. He thinks about how different the fight was compared to when they first met. She was resourceful, grabbing anything. A gun. Bolt cutters. A hose. But given the opportunity to fight, for fucking leisure, without anything to hold onto, she would.

Furiosa feels the clean, swollen cut on her bottom lip, surely protruding now. She stands up with a stiff back and Max crawls into bed, eager for the mattress. She kicks off her boots as well, and peels off her undershirt, damp with sweat. Lying down, Max catches sight of two jagged scars on either sides of her rib cage, outstanding other small ones. She turns down the gaslight till it turns dim, and Max feels her shadow loom over him,

"Move over".

He quickly scuffles to the inside of the bed, tucking himself in as small as he can. She climbs in comfortably nestled next to him, and brings her arm up to rest her head in the crook.

Exhausted, she immediately closes her eyes and exhales heavily through her nose.

However Max is still tense, shocked by how abrupt but natural she is. Her chest rises and falls, but Max's eyes are still awake, blinking.

"How long are you staying?" She asks quietly.

He struggles with the question. He doesn't know for himself really. The Citadel makes him anxious and he wants to bolt, he can’t and it's because of her. He catches her biting her lip, humming like she did, or feeling her warmth, and he has to stay. But he won't say that so he gives himself an excuse.

“Mm.. at least til’ the rig is done” he answers.  
She makes a noise in the back of her throat and settles, a space between them, and it takes forever for Max to fall asleep.


End file.
